


if i’m lost then how can i find myself?

by manticoremoons



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: D/s Hints, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Alec/Jace Lightwood (one-sided), Pre-Slash, Slight Internalised Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lightwoods aren't big on hugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i’m lost then how can i find myself?

**Author's Note:**

> this is written for the [shadowhunters ficathon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html). for freckles929's prompt Magnus/Alec - touch-starved. forgive my rather rusty writing skills, it's been a minute. not beta-read. all mistakes are mine but these characters ain't!

The Lightwoods aren’t big on hugs.

Sure, sometimes Mother will draw him in for a quick one whenever she comes home from Idris or pat his shoulder in a perfunctory way when he shoots exceptionally well or performs beyond her expectations.

(It makes his heart swell to make her proud. Whenever she observes their training, he shoots a little straighter, knowing that her mouth will twitch just a bit and she might come close and squeeze the bunched muscles in his shoulder and murmur, ‘You did well, son.’)

 

And Father? Father always slaps him on the back when he comes to the punchline of a particularly bad joke, almost like a signal that it’s time to laugh even if you don’t find it remotely funny. (Alec never finds it funny but he does always laugh.)

 

Max. Well, of course, he’s the baby. He’s still young enough that too many hugs aren’t going to make him soft. (Alec thinks there won’t ever be a day when he _doesn’t_ want to hug the life out of him. And it’s _okay_. Because it’s Max.)

 

He, Jace and Izzy have their own thing. Like, Izzy always used to be the first one to rush to his side whenever Jace got a good right-cross in, dropping him to the floor like a pansy. She’d grip his arm, sharp fingernails digging into the flesh there, her face caught between worry for him and glaring at Jace for daring to lay a hand on him. He had to tell her one time to quit it. He was a warrior; warriors didn’t need their baby sisters worrying for their wellbeing on the field. Especially if it meant said baby sisters would make themselves vulnerable in their worrying. Then everybody was weak, and he was still the loser who needed his sister fighting his battles for him.

‘All right, big brother, I’ll _try_ not to make you look like a weakling in front of your fancy new parabatai,’ she’d said. The sardonic little smile on her twelve-year old face had been vaguely alarming at the time.

It’s Izzy though. He should have known that her agreeing so readily was a red flag. To this day, he knows that whenever Jace accidentally hurts him during a sparring session in the gym, he gets an extra lash of her whip when it comes round to her turn in the training circle.

(It’s also Izzy who patches him up in the early morning hours after a hard battle. And he does the same for her.

They don’t hug so much anymore now that they’re adults. She’s a warrior just as much as he is. But he’ll draw her _iratzes_ and she’ll draw his after a long night on the streets, they don’t even have to ask for it—the routine so deeply ingrained.

He wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. And that’s _enough_ , he thinks.)

 

With Jace, it’s different. It always has been. They’re blood brothers. He’s been closer to Jace than he’s ever been to a single living person. (But not like _that_. Never like that).

He remembers the first time they tapped into their bond. Jace’s fingers gripping his elbows. Their foreheads pressed together. Eyes intent and focused. The whole world receding into some hazy distance so that the only thing that registered right then:

 _Jace_ ’s fingers grasping at his elbows, digging into him so hard it hurt.

 _Jace_ ’s eyes boring into his. So close Alec could make out every single sliver of colour—crystalline blue so pure you could swim in it, the splatter of tawny gold and rust in his left iris.

 _Jace_ ’s clammy forehead pressed against his own, the skin furrowed in concentration.

 _Jace_ ’s breath mingling with his, so close he could almost taste it.

_JaceJaceJaceJaceJa—_

He’d felt a curl of shame in his gut.

 _That_ wasn’t what you were supposed to feel with the bond. Yes, _close_ but not like that. Not the way Alec wanted to be.

(Alec wanted to lean his head _just_ _so_ and lick into Jace’s mouth. He wanted to bite his tongue. He wanted to get so close that you couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the other began.

He _wanted_.)

( _Close_. But not like that.)

 

*

 

So perhaps it’s not strange at all that the day he meets Magnus Bane, holds out his hand to be shaken and feels strong fingers wrap around his own, he _notices_.

 

*

 

They’re each standing at a point in the pentagram, and Magnus reaches for his hand and it’s stupid—but Alec can’t help gulping. It’s a hand. Nothing more. And they’re about to _summon a demon_ , which Alec doesn’t want to think too deeply about or else he might give himself a heart attack.

This is not the time to get nervous and stupid about holding the hand of some guy he’s only just met.

(It doesn’t matter if said _guy_ makes something strange and heated coil in his stomach. Doesn’t matter if just this _guy_ ’s smile earlier had left Alec stutter-stupid like some gormless idiot who couldn’t even remember how to speak properly.)

So he swallows the lump in his throat and takes Magnus’ hand.

He jumps at the contact. Only a little, not enough that anyone would notice.

(Although Magnus does because he’s watching Alec with those eyes of his that make Alec feel skittish on the inside, like he’s got a dozen moths flying around his body. He manages to tear his eyes away from Magnus’ eventually—it’s a near thing.

Those moths don’t quit their fluttering though.)

 

*

 

There’s a reason why shadowhunters don’t go around consorting with downworlders. But Alec doesn’t have an inkling of _why_ it’s so dangerous until he grips Magnus’ arm, looks him square in the eye and tells him, ‘Take what you need.’

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Giving a warlock, a powerful one at that, a free-for-all pass to his body, to his very _essence,_ was the height of stupidity.

But he doesn’t think of that then. Not when Magnus is staring up at him as though Alec is the answer to every prayer he’s ever uttered. As if Alec is the only thing he can see. As if Alec is everything that matters in the moment.

(Alec knows he isn’t; he’d never be so arrogant to assume such a thing. Luke is lying prone and bleeding on the couch after all. But there is something in the way Magnus looks at him.)

For someone on the brink of collapse, Magnus’ grip is firm.

It doesn’t hurt when Magnus pulls the energy out of him. It feels—there’s no other way to describe it—it feels like _magic_.

Now, he’s shared energy with Jace many times, to do a tracking spell or to maximise the effectiveness of their fighting power before battle. It’s always all business on Jace’s end, perfect soldier that he is. And Alec only lets himself get lost in it sometimes and never long enough for Jace to notice.

But this is something else entirely.

He can _feel_ Magnus, some part of Magnus, searching for an invisible thread at the centre of his being, burrowing all the way inside of him, and pulling. Unravelling him in spools. It’s invasive and part of Alec wants to hide from it.

In his mind’s eye, he can see into Magnus too. He isn’t prepared for the intimacy of that. Raw energy crackling, a fierce butane flame. He wants to let every bit of shadowhunter power he possesses envelop that flame and keep it alive, no matter what.

He wants to touch it, even if it burns.

 

*

 

Later, when he recalls that day, he’ll wonder if that’s what changes things. If that’s the second his body decides who it wants and what it wants. If that’s the moment something in the very heart of him lays claim on Magnus Bane and that’s that.

So much so that any time he’s around Magnus some part of him he can’t name—his blood, the very hairs on his skin—will call out. Needy and hungry. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

(Much, much later—he’ll be more honest with himself and remember that it had nothing to do with spells or power exchanges. It’s just _Magnus_ and _him_ , and there’s no running from that.)

 

*

 

‘What are you doing here, Alexander?’ Magnus says from the comfort of his lumpy couch, a dusty tome on his lap and a tumbler of something amber-coloured in his hand.

Alec is breathless. He ran all the way here. And his heart might jump out of his chest and onto the floor it’s beating so hard and fast.

‘I-I’m not sure.’ He’s buzzing. Everything is buzzing so loud he can’t hear himself anymore.

 _We can be friends, Alexander_ , Magnus had said weeks before when Alec spilled the news of the upcoming wedding, sincere and kind as ever. _Any time you need to talk, my door’s open_.

So of course he’d come here now. ‘I just needed—.‘

He’s getting _married_ tomorrow. _Tomorrow._ And yet he’s here, in Magnus’ loft and he’s not sure what to say.

‘You’re hurt,’ Magnus observes, putting his glass and book on the coffee table and making his way towards Alec. His eyes narrow as he takes in the purpling skin around Alec’s eye—a gift from Jace who, in typical Jace-fashion, didn’t get why Alec was getting married to some woman he didn’t know and figured that beating the crap out of each other on a sparring mat would provide some sort of answer.

‘It’s nothing,’ Alec says, ducking his head a bit. He clenches and unclenches his hands, and wishes he had some pockets so he’d know what to do with them.

Magnus hums something rude under his breath and his fingers are on Alec’s chin, lifting his face up.

Alec shivers, bites the inside of his mouth to keep from doing something embarrassing like moaning. It’s a near thing.

Magnus’ fingers are warm and soft, gentle even. Different to Alec’s, which are covered in uneven calluses from years of handling a bow and arrow and all manner of weaponry.

It’s funny. But Alec doesn’t feel like a soldier when Magnus touches him, stuck in a centuries-old supernatural war they're not winning. He doesn’t feel like a blunt instrument to be thrown at the Clave for some unseemly purpose or like something to be patched up after a bloody battle.  

He’s _just_ Alec, and Magnus Bane’s fingers are stroking the side of his face. Everything in his life feels like it could blow up in his face at any moment. But this, a hand on his face is _nice._ It makes him feel grounded and like he could float at once.

(It’s dangerous to feel like this, he thinks. To _want_ this.)

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ Alec mutters.

‘I’m sure you’re used to much worse,’ Magnus retorts, a curl of disgust to his mouth. ‘You wouldn’t be a shadowhunter otherwise.’

‘Yes.’

Magnus’ face softens, a smirk tipping at the edges of his mouth. Alec smiles back.

‘I suppose it helps that it looks good on you.’

Alec chuckles then, it’s a little frayed at the edges. ‘Thanks—I think.’

Magnus’ fingers are splayed on his cheek now, and his thumb drags down to the corner of his mouth, runs along the seam. Alec whimpers. Closes his eyes and without thought, he purses his lips to kiss the pad of Magnus’ thumb. He wishes he was brave enough to do something really daring, like draw that finger into his mouth and suck it, maybe even bite. (But he’s not.)

He takes a step forward though so he’s close enough that Magnus’ silk shirt brushes against his own sweaty grey t-shirt.

Magnus shifts his hand so it grasps the back of Alec’s neck, draws him close in a half-hug. Alec lets himself fall into it, fall into Magnus. He lets Magnus hold him up, one lean arm curving around his shoulders and the other gripping his back, digging into his spine.

Alec hears a contented sound, somewhere between a purr and a sigh and realises it came from him.

‘You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,’ Magnus says.

Alec’s not sure how Magnus knew, how Magnus always knows. He latches his fingers onto Magnus’ hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world and pulls him in as close as he can without toppling them to the floor.

He burrows his face into Magnus’ shoulder and breathes in sandalwood and leather, sweat and skin. Magnus’ pulse throbs under his mouth and he absorbs that too, lets the rhythm of it quieten that overwhelming buzzing sound from earlier.

Magnus tugs at his hair and Alec grunts with it. His blood thrills at the slight pain.

He lets his mouth drift along Magnus’ chin, barely touching the skin but so close it feels like he is. He leans his forehead against Magnus’ and bites his lower lip to stop himself. Stop himself from crossing the invisible line they’ve drawn in these last few weeks of ‘friendship.’

(They crossed it long ago, of course. This isn’t just ‘friendship’ anymore. He’s not sure what to call it. But he can pretend—he’s good at pretending. Always has been.)

When he opens his eyes, minutes or hours later, Magnus is watching him the way he often does.

As though Alec’s the answer to a million questions he hasn’t even asked yet.

Alec lets himself smile.

 

**fin**

**Author's Note:**

> i sort of challenged myself to write this without any big resolution because who knows what canon will do in the coming weeks. i hope i succeeded with conveying what i wanted with that and satisfying the prompt ;).
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](http://berensens.tumblr.com).


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